


Apartment Therapy

by whatdoyouthinkmyjobis



Series: Hunters on the Hellmouth [14]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Bonding, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Domestic Fluff, F/M, First Love, Fluff, Memories, Suspicious Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8046295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis/pseuds/whatdoyouthinkmyjobis
Summary: Buffy is worried about Willow's impending return, and Dean can't shake the feeling that there's more to Spike than he's been told. But who has time to worry when there's an apartment to move into?





	Apartment Therapy

The light in the tight stairwell wouldn’t have lit the space even if it wasn’t flickering. It warped their shadows into creepy monsters. The stairs groaned loudly under their weight.

“This place is super duper cozy what with the peeling lead paint and the cockroaches,” said Xander.

“Bet there’s at least one body in the basement,” said Dawn.

Buffy raised a finger to her lips. “They’ll hear you!” But her gut wasn’t calm about this place either.

A door opened down the hall. An elderly woman with a cottony puff of hair and dark, shifting eyes barked, “Get out of here! You don’t belong!” before slamming the door shut.

“This is it,” said Dawn, pounding on dingy door number two.

Sam answered the door with a sunshiny, dimpled smile. “Welcome to our apartment!” 

Down the entry hall, newspaper clippings, yellow legal paper, and post-its wallpapered the living room; one wall had been cleared showing chipped brick underneath. Fat law books cluttered the floor. Two large windows flooded the room with natural light. Cigarette burns covered the yellowed kitchen counter. All the cabinet doors were missing, and the appliances congregated in the middle of the room. Three doors on the far wall led to what Buffy hoped were clean bedrooms and a sparkling bathroom.

Dawn stumbled for something to say. “It’s, um, kinda cozy…”

“Like a serial killer lair,” said Xander.

Still grinning, Sam nodded. “Not gonna deny the current creep factor. The landlord had a squatter for a couple years. Finally evicted him last month, but the guy left the place trashed. He said we could have the first two months rent free if we fixed the place.”

Xander whistled low. “He’s getting the sweet end of that deal. You’re going to put a hell of a lot of labor into this.”

Sam shrugged. “Labor we can spare. A thousand dollars up front for a security deposit plus two month’s rent, not so much. Don’t worry. He’s buying materials, too. I got it all in the contract. Bonus, this place came with furniture.”

They looked at the empty room. “Where?”

“We moved it all into one of the bedrooms,” Sam pointed. “Everything is covered in scribbles and burns, so it all needs to be sanded and refinished.”

“Dibs!” shouted Xander, gleefully heading for the power tools.

“The other bedroom is over the dumpster, so we’ve just been throwing the law books out there,” Sam added.

“This guy was a lawyer?” asked Dawn skeptically.

“No,” said Sam gathering an armload of books, “I think he was unmedicated. From his notes, I gather he was trying to sue McDonald’s for making him an alien.”

“Of all the things that actually happen in this town…” Dawn muttered  as she headed to the dumpster room with _Tort Law 1984 volumes 1-3_.

Buffy tugged on one of her pigtails. “Sam, where’s–”

A cry of victory rose from the kitchen.

“Nevermind,” she said, already feeling warm and tingly at the idea of Dean.

In the kitchen, she found her new boyfriend, smiling like a kid on the first day of summer vacation, cleaning up tools behind the refrigerator.

“Did the mean ol’ fridge give you what you wanted?”

Upon seeing Buffy, his smile grew impossibly bigger as he picked her up and spun her around in the cramped quarters.

She wanted to stop time and keep this light hearted man forever. He felt like he was _hers_ , with his smile that budded with home and bloomed with her.

He set Buffy on the counter and kissed her behind her ear. “Hi-ya, Girly.” His warm, gravelly voice rumbled through her body.

“Hey! Stop your canoodling!” snapped Dawn. “This apartment isn’t going to uncrazy itself!”

“We’re canoodlers,” said Dean, beaming at her, his gaze lingering on her lips.

Sam returned for another armful of books.

“Here we see a librarian in the wild,” Dean half whispered to Buffy. “It’s the rare _dorkicus sans-glassicus_. It appears that he is _destroying_ books. This can only mean he’s contracted some sort of brain damaging virus. Probably an std.”

Sam glowered at his brother. Buffy guessed the librarian barbs had been non-stop since he landed the job.

Dawn started peeling post-its off the wall. “Sam, since you’re the new librarian am I going to have to call you Mr. Winchester now? Because that’s weird.”

“I didn’t think of that. I guess when people are around you’ll have to,” he apologized.

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Sammy. You’ll still be spendin’ all day surrounded by dusty ol’ books.” He smirked at Buffy has he walked his fingers over her thigh. “That’s always his favorite part of working a job: research. Those couple a days we spent shut up in your house looking for a way home? Time of his life.”

Quiet enough so only Dean could hear, Buffy asked, “Are you still looking? For home?”

“Nah,” he said in an unconvincing tone. “Sam, he’s still shuffling papers an’ taking notes, trying to figure out where we are, but the truth is, aside from when my mom was alive, I never had a home. Home’s always been this shifting thing, moving around with people. That’s what makes home. Ain’t a place or a building. It’s who you share your private space with.”

She smiled so big, she felt the need to cover her mouth with her hands.

“What?”

“You got a little poetic there, Dean Winchester.”

“Shut up,” he said still smiling as he set her on the floor and smacked her butt. “Go! I got a leaky sink to fix.”

“FYI: Xander’s pretty good with plumbing.”

“Thanks.” He kissed her forehead lightly and went to the bedroom to talk with Xander.

Buffy clapped her hands and turned her attention to her declared reason for being there. “Let’s chuck some nasty old books! Do you have a tarpy thing? We could just put them all on that and I could carry them to the window all at once.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Sam muttered.

“Because you’re not used to being abnormally strong? It’s okay, I have _years_ of experience making men feel inadequate. Don’t beat yourself up.”

Sam fetched two nylon tarps from one of the bedrooms and they started filling them with books. “So, are you excited?”

“Beyond thrilled that Dean has his own room – I mean – that you two have a place.” Buffy could feel her face growing hot.

Sam grinned. “Thank you for your selfless congratulations, but I meant are you excited about Willow coming back this weekend?”

When Buffy had last spoken to Giles a little over two weeks prior, he didn’t have glowing reports of Willow’s progress. She’s wasn’t black-haired and on a vengeance kick, but she was barely eating, barely sleeping. He coerced her to go on daily walks with him just to get her outside, get her talking. Remembering to breathe left some of her don’t-be-evil course undone.

“Yes and no. Giles said she’s doing okay and all, but it’s going to be weird interacting with her, losing a loved one the way she did. Add to that the recurring nightmare of seeing her skin someone.” Buffy thumbed the pages of the book in her hand. “I love her. I always will, but she’s a a Willow shape, not my Willow.”

“A little advice from someone who’s been in Willow’s shoes: embrace her when you can. Give her space when she asks for it. And don’t push for answers or normalcy,” said Sam.

Again, Buffy was embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about – Jess, was it?”

“Jess, yeah.”

They finished piling the books on the tarps, carried them to the room above the dumpster, and tossed their loads out the window with a loud battery of bangs.

Buffy leaned against the window sill and let the breeze wash over her. “Would you tell me about her? About Jess?”

He ran his hands through his sweaty hair and sighed. “Wow. It’s been a while. Let’s see. She was in the art program at Stanford. Smart and passionate. Always dragging me to museums, galleries, art fairs. She loved dogs. Wanted to have a bunch of kids.”

“With you? Did you feel ready for that?”

“For kids at twenty-two? Not really, but I thought she was the one, so I was saving up for a ring, working on a romantic proposal.” He picked up the tarp and folded it neatly. “In hindsight, I don’t think we would have worked out, hunting being the least of the reasons why, but the night she died, she was the love of my life.”

“God, I’m so sorry!” She regretted having asked for his pain to be her distraction.

Sam shook his head. “I’m sorry Jess was caught in the crosshairs. Sometimes I still lose sleep wondering if I could have warned her, but I’ve mostly come to terms with it. Besides, being married to the wrong person and fighting with them all the time isn’t exactly a happy ending either.”

Buffy slid to the floor and measured her words. “The first guy I loved…died. It was a different circumstance than you or Willow, but he still died horribly. Haunted me for a long time. God, it took me over a year before I could even think about another guy. All these years later, even knowing we never would have worked out, even when I have an amazing guy in my life, I think of him sometimes. I get this weird tingly warmth when I think about him, and I wonder if that’s his exclusively.”

Sam sat next to her. “I think so. Your first love stakes a claim in your heart that bleeds a little bit forever.”

“Poor choice of words,” Buffy muttered.

“What?”

“I just hope Will heals. I’ve never seen grief like that.”

“Xander thinks she may have been possessed,” said Sam.

“We’ve talked about that. Sick as it sounds, I’d love for that to be the answer. She _killed_ a guy, Sam. My sweet Willow with the fuzzy sweaters skinned someone alive. He was a murdering ass, so I’m not too broken up about it, but it’s not like he was the only victim she had in mind. She was going after a couple others. She threatened me. She threatened Dawn and nearly killed Giles! If she snaps again, I’m going to have to…”

She couldn’t finish thinking about it, let alone say it. Killing one person she loved had been enough for a hundred lifetimes. Hopefully, Willow’s early return wouldn’t lead to a relapse.

Buffy stood up and stretched. “That’s a lovely Slayer dilemma for another, hopefully never, day. Today, we’re making this place livable.”

She whirled around before leaving. “Could you keep that stuff about my first boyfriend between us?”

“Of course.”

* * *

 

Whenever their father would drop them off, Bobby Singer, a man who frowned upon idleness in young boys, had things for them to do. “Leave ya alone, and somethin’s goin’ up in smoke,” he’d grumble. He usually had books for Sam to read which he’d quiz the boy about at dinner. “How many of those creatures in _The Odyssey_ do you think are real?” To keep Dean out of trouble, Bobby would drag him along on whatever project he himself was working on. Salvage, vehicle renovation, woodworking, herb gathering – the old man’s list of tasks knew no end.

“When am I ever gonna need to know this?” Dean had complained on a Saturday morning spent stripping furniture instead of watching cartoons. 

“Never complain about learnin’, boy. You think I stayed alive this long because I’m pretty? You’d be surprised what comes in handy. Now make sure you wipe off your scraper in between or you’ll just be spreadin’ all that gunk around again.” 

Dean surveyed the bedroom stuffed with wood furniture. Some of the pieces he’d be able to use parts of; others were a total loss. Bobby would be proud of the job he’d done on one of the dressers, stripping and sanding until it was cleared of incoherent scribbles. “Ain’t bad,” he’d say.

A small wave of grief washed over him thinking of Bobby. _Are you still looking for home?_ Dean didn’t want to leave Sunnydale, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of Bobby sitting at home alone thinking they were dead.

Then it hit him like a punch in the chest: one of those dressers was his. His clothes were going to move in and not come out until they were worn. He was going to leave one of those drawers for Buffy. Instead of falling asleep to Sam’s light snoring and trying not to wonder about the motel bed’s mystery smell, he’d be in his own bedroom, his own bed, curled around his girlfriend with his nose buried in her sweet-smelling hair.

He felt strange and new. Not new-kid-in-class new or don’t-know-my-way-around-town new. He felt reborn.

“Cas, is this really Heaven?” he prayed.

As always since they’d arrived in Sunnydale, Cas did not answer.

Buffy came in.

Cutting the power to the sander, he removed his mask and said, “Girly, you don’t want to be in here with all this dust.”

“No, silly, I want to be in here with you.” She looked around the room with the same confused look she gave her textbooks. “Did I miss the comfy furniture somewhere? You know, couches, chairs? Beds?”

“Nah, we still have to get that stuff.”

She sauntered over to him, settling into his lap with a sly grin. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t stop by after patrol? Where are you sleeping?”

“Sleeping bag in the living room.”

“Babe, that’s terrible!” she cried, mood ruined. “You should just stay at my house while you get your place ready. Hmm, I like the sound of that, _your place_.”

“It’s ain’t that bad. I’ve slept in worse conditions. Besides, if I’m here I’ll get more done. The sooner I get things done, the sooner you can come over.”

He bit his lip and ran his hands over her, more than ready to close the bedroom door and steal a private moment, but he smacked her butt to get her up and began poking through a pile of sandpaper.

“Thanks for bringing Dawn and Xander to help.”

“They were happy to hear you guys were moving out of the Motor Inn. My friends are your friends.”

He snorted and rubbed the corner of the dresser with the sandpaper.

Friends? Dawn for sure; the kid adored him. Between her love of books and youngest-child-spectator-view of the action, she reminded him of Sam in a lot of ways. Xander, maybe with their weekly poker games and attempts to deliver him from girly drinks. He didn’t expect a warm welcome from the witch, and he had no idea what Giles would think of him. Had she even told Giles? Then there were her other, weirder friends.

“Really? Going off the icy daggers she shoots me, I’m pretty sure Anya wouldn’t mind if I’d left town.”

“It’s not you,” she said. “Anya was jilted at the altar. It’s more of a mankind-in-general sort of hatred.”

He moved to another corner and rubbed harder at the stubborn stains. “Then there’s the Billy Idol wannabe. Spike, right?”

“Yeah.” Her voice came out small and choked. His name was a raw nerve.

“Granted, I was only around the guy for a few seconds, but he’s kind of a dick.”

A smitten dick. Spike looked possessively at Buffy, which drove Dean nuts. No one should look at someone like they were a thing to be had. But there was something laying underneath the unrequited crush, something that had turned her into a ball of nerves when they ran into each other.

She nodded. “That sums him up.”

“It’s funny, you never mentioned him before, but you know him well enough to fight a demon together.”

“He, um, he used to fight with us, but he moved away a few months ago. I didn’t think he’d come back, so why bring him up?”

“Giles moved, but you’ve told me about him.”

“Yeah, well, no one missed Spike. You said it yourself, he’s a dick,” she said quietly, avoiding his stare. 

He stopped sanding off layers and stared into her eyes. “You trust him?” It was less of a question than an accusation.

“He wants to help, he’s just not always the best at figuring out how.”

Putting on a stiff smile, she stood up and headed toward the door. “Speaking of help, I’m going to scrub what I assume is a science experiment of a bathroom. Please tell me you bought bleach by the gallon.”

“Check the kitchen."

He didn’t want her to leave.

“Hey, Girly! You like the light in here?” The late afternoon sun was pouring in from the front windows, lighting up the brick and giving the room a warm glow. Homey. “I keep imagining you waking up in here,” he said with a wink.


End file.
